


Not My Fault

by MrsNoggin



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: CHAPTER RATINGS VARY, Come Eating, Crowley has a Pavlovian Response to Bus Rides, Discord: O Lord Heal This Server, I blame OLHTS not me never me, I'll tag relevant things as they come along, I'm Sorry, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Save Me, Slight Voyeurism, That sounds like I intend to keep doing this, crackfic compendium, prompts all in one place
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:49:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25840888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsNoggin/pseuds/MrsNoggin
Summary: Shorts ficlets and works that come from the prompts and crack stuff thrown at me.I should be sorry. Maybe I am. Who knows?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 125
Collections: The Not-Very-Nice and Anatomically-Inaccurate Prophecies of OLHTS





	1. The New Switcheroo

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, these will likely make very little sense, but I need somewhere to keep them all together. I'd apologise, but I'm not actually sorry. I will apologise for those who came here for actual fic because of an email notif. To you, I am sorry. This is not the fic you are looking for. 
> 
> Prompt details at start of each chapter. These are all unbetaed, because I couldn't subject my betas to this, no matter how strong our love.

**For** \- The Not-Very-Nice and Anatomically-Inaccurate Prophecies, OLHTS server rules apply.  
 **Prompt** \- "The Antichrist" for Josey, who is in flipping LABOUR as I write.  
 **Title** \- The New Switcheroo  
 **Rated** \- G, maybe one swear, NO SEX (I know, who even am I?!)  
  


* * *

  
  


Aziraphale can’t even feel his eyebrows anymore. He thinks perhaps they have ended up lost above his forehead somewhere. "So. You stole it." 

Crowley doesn't even look guilty. "It's just so… cute and squishy and… perfect?" 

"You can't bring up a child."

"We didn't do too bad with the actual Christ." 

"He _had_ parents!" 

Crowley scoffs, "Yeah, that put him in a tub of hay as a newborn, that donkey was gonna bite him, he was! And that time they left him in a temple a couple of years later and didn't even notice. And people think Home Alone was child neglect."

"I hate to point out, doting parent, but _this_ newborn is in a picnic basket."

"I didn't put it in there!" Crowley's raised voice stirs the baby, a few indignant squawks coming from said basket. 

"Yes, but you didn't take it out, either." Aziraphale snaps back, before sighing. Not quite in defeat, but in acceptance of the fact that he will soon be defeated. 

Crowley leans over and removes the baby from the basket, and Aziraphale knows this is it, the moment of defeat. The demon is horrendously gentle, cradling the soft head in his big hands, tipping The Adversary up to his shoulder and letting the tiny baby curl naked legs up against his chest. 

"I'm going to take it to the hospital, let the nuns play the switcheroo game as planned, but I'll wait for the extra, and then when they give me the surplus baby, I'll go swap it back."

"What if that one's cuter, squishier, even more perfect?" 

Crowley looks down at the round dozing face on his pointy shoulder. Watches it sleepily nuzzle into his sharpness and Aziraphale sees the moment it all cements, becomes final, definite. It's sweet, Aziraphale has never seen Crowley so tender, and yet so defensive. He's instinctively swaying side to side and he wraps the child into his body as if he can stop anything ever hurting him. 

"Impossible," Crowley mumbles, and presses his long nose into the fine hair on the back of the baby's head. Breathes it in. "This one's ours." 

" _OURS?!"  
  
_

* * *

It’s a bit of an adventure, and for some reason Aziraphale finds himself dragged along. As he always is with Crowley’s ridiculous schemes. He’d resent that fact, but actually, not only does it usually end up to his advantage, they’re always fun. 

He’s done all he can, and now he’s just waiting, pretending his hands aren’t wringing themselves and his toes aren’t curling and uncurling inside his brogues. Then he sees it, the shifting of a shadow in the corner of his eye. Crowley, practically made of shadow himself, exiting the nunnery through a window that should, by all rights, be far too small for him to do so. But somehow a body follows the ridiculous length of leg that slips through, and that body is cradling a baby. Then he’s at the car, clambering in, thrusting the bundle of limbs and blankets at Aziraphale and screeching the car out of the car park, with a shower or skidded gravel and a screech of rubber on the tarmac.

Aziraphale looks down at his lap. “It’s the right one?”

“Of course it is.” Crowley rolls his eyes, grates his jaw from side to side. “As if I’d forget our own child.”

 _Ours?_ Aziraphale mouths to himself.   
  


* * *

“What are we going to call it? Is it a him, do you think?”

“They’ve got the societally accepted parts for a male,” Crowley hums. “I think their life will be easier if we start them off that way, for the humans. We’ll keep an eye. I’m not entirely sure the antichrist is limited to one gender, or if they even have one at all? Pretty sure they’ll pick and choose as they like.”

Aziraphale feels a prickle of unease, skittering down his spine. A realistation, perhaps, of what they’re doing, what they’re actually doing. “Crowley. Crowley, this is the antichrist. The _antichrist_.”

“You just getting that now, Angel?”

“You’re not planning to… take over the world or anything? Combine our powers and--”

“He’s a baby, Aziraphale. His powers are limited to screaming and shitting right now.”

“Yes but--”

“Yes but, we’ll come to it when we come to it, ok?” Crowley reaches out a hand, the same hand that has been so gentle and caring to the baby, and Aziraphale realises it’s actually always been gentle and caring to him too, for a darn sight longer. The gentle, caring hand, lands on his thigh, squeezes gently and caringly. It reassures him, as Crowley knew it would. “Let’s call him Adam. I know you had a soft spot for those first humans.”

It wasn’t just Aziraphale who had a soft spot, if he remembers correctly. “Isn’t that a bit… on the nose?” But he looks down at the scrunched up face, the perfect button nose, the ridiculously long eyelashes. He’s definitely an Adam. “The Almighty might not like if we have another Adam.”

“Yeah, but this one’s ours.”

“Ours.” He says out loud. Perhaps he could come to accept it, somewhat.  
  


* * *

“WHERE’S MY SON? ” It’s a huge booming sound, a frightening sound, a voice of pure power and wrath. The runway trembles and quivers as though the ground itself is afraid. “YOU? YOU’RE MY REBELLIOUS SON?!”

Satan crashes a fist down onto the tarmac, roars in anger. Every single human takes a step back, several steps back. Only one eleven year old boy stands firm. 

Aziraphale reaches out, takes Crowley’s hand and pulls him from the floor. They stand together, step forward together, crowd Adam from behind and let him lean against their presence and love as well as their bodies. 

“Actually,” Aziraphale states pleasantly, rests his spare hand on Adam’s shoulder and sees Crowley do the same the other side, matching, always. “I think you’ll find he’s ours.”

* * *


	2. Awesome Sauce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. So sorry. More crackfic prompt stuff. 
> 
> Special mention goes out to [Englandwouldfall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englandwouldfall/pseuds/Englandwouldfall) for a conversation we had many a moon ago about demon ejaculate and sauce.

**For** \- The Not-Very-Nice and Anatomically-Inaccurate Prophecies, OLHTS server rules apply.  
 **Prompt** \- "Sauces"  
 **Title** \- Awesome Sauce  
 **Rated** \- E for sexytimes.

“I’ll give you anything, anything…” Crowley was panting.  
  
“I know, darling,” Aziraphale murmured soothingly, encouragingly. He smiled up at him - he did know that, he had known it for a long time. He pushed his head up into Crowley’s hand and fought the urge to close his eyes in pleasure at the grip tightening in his hair. “You’re so good to me. Always.”

Crowley hiccuped a gasp, his hips shuddering. His hand, his long delicate fingers, were fairly flying along his cock at this point. A light grip, using the side of his thumb knuckle for extra pressure. Which meant he was close. Not that Aziraphale had studied him doing this, not at all, no. No. (Only a little). Hush. (Maybe a lot).

The sounds of the movements were slicker suddenly, and Crowley’s eyes crinkled around the edges as he, too, tried to keep them open. He wanted to look down at him, Aziraphale knew, to watch. Witness and enjoy every second. Full fierce yellow gold, burning with intensity. Anyone else might call it a glare, Aziraphale knew it was plain adoration.

“ _Anything_ , Angel.”

Aziraphale shuffled forward on his knees and reached out to lay a gentle palm on Crowley’s shaking thigh. He was glorious like this, all beautiful agony and mad desperation. Aziraphale was so enamoured and enthralled that he almost missed it. Almost.

“Oh, shit, what do you want?” It was rushed, a high squawk of a question. 

There were only seconds, Aziraphale knew instantly, and he may have panicked. Sort of panicked. Sort of said the first thing he thought of. 

“Uh, um… Soy.” And then he opened his mouth, wide and obedient. He missed the first jerk and spurt, but steered a little better to catch the next on his tongue. 

“Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes,” Crowley hissed. And he stiffened before grunting with pure satisfaction. 

Aziraphale lost the battle with one of his eyes and it winced shut as he swallowed. Nevertheless, he leant forward to clean his demon up properly, never let it be said he shirked his duties. Not that it was a duty, it was a _pleasure_.

Crowley, clearly, knew though. “No?”

Aziraphale smiled, tipped his head side to side consideringly. “Bit salty. I don’t think I thought it through.”

Crowley knelt down in front of him and used a fingertip to clean a smear from alongside an upturned nose. Sampled it cautiously. “Yuh, we maybe won’t do that one again. What do you think of golden syrup next time. Too sticky?”

“Is that actually a sauce, though?”

  
  



	3. The Problem with Buses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once again, this is not the fic you are looking for. Unless you are looking for stupid prompted crackfic. In which case, please continue.

**For** \- The Not-Very-Nice and Anatomically-Inaccurate Prophecies, OLHTS server rules apply.  
 **Prompt** \- "Public Transportation"  
 **Title** \- The problem with Buses  
 **Rated** \- M ish.   
  


Crowley has a problem. 

Throughout the last decade of covert bus meetings he seems to have developed a sort of, shall we say, pavlovian response to such a journey. It's not his fault. It's not. Except, maybe it is. 

It all begins a decade or before his current predicament. When times were simpler and meetings were clandestine and shrouded in mystery and spy novella chic (so he liked to think). 

The number 29 bus. Or N29 was his preferred choice (longer route, less people, darkness (he is a demon, you know)). Anyway, it’s his favourite. The one where could clatter up the stairs of the double decker and find an Angel sitting and waiting for him. Sometimes reading a book or a newspaper, with his copper-bronze toned spectacles resting primly upon that charming upturn of nose. More often than not, though, he was without other distractions, just turned slightly to the side with his gaze fixed outside the vehicle. Watching the world he so loved through the scratched and steamed up plexiglass. 

Crowley would swing into the double seat behind him casually, faux-casually really, while inside he was already quaking in anticipation. The conversations they were there for were often brief, and sometimes over in only moments, yet neither of them departed. They both sat, trundling around the arse end of London silently, together. And Crowley sat, getting hotter and hotter, wondering if Aziraphale could feel his gaze burning at the back of his neck. 

If he were to be honest with himself, Crowley often fabricated reasons for these meetings. And if he were to be completely honest with himself, he was pretty sure Aziraphale knew that. But luckily Crowley was rarely honest with himself, so they carried on as they were, meeting for no reason other than they both wanted to spend some time together and Crowley really had to stop dipping into the bookshop of an evening before they got caught. 

Aziraphale always alighted the bus first. Often only a stop or two before the route termination. (He could never stop himself from making heavy eye contact as he turned the corner at the top of the stairs.) This gave Crowley approximately four minutes alone (or almost alone, but certainly invisible to any other passengers) to free the bulge that had been crowding the fly of his jeans most rudely for at least half an hour, and to jerk it to completion. He had never struggled to make it in that time. In fact, it usually only took a matter of seconds. 

He just loved that Angel so much, ok, and he wanted him so hard and if he had to sit on a stinking London Bus to get to breathe him in freely and unseen, then that’s what he’d do. And then he’d bloody well wank himself to death afterwards, alright? 

But that’s all ancient history. Isn’t it. Isn’t it? They have a lot of that. Except... 

The problem is this. His problem. This problem. This problem that he has, now they have apparently saved the world and are going to die in a horrible fashion as soon as Heaven and Hell catch up with them, is that he is on a bus, again. With Aziraphale, again. Inhaling the sharp scent of his expensive cologne, the soft edge of paper and leather binding, alongside  _ bus _ (which is mainly diesel, cheap cleaning products and old people), again. The problem is that his body has been trained, he has trained it. Stupid, stupid. And some annoying part of his body doesn’t seem to care that instead of being  _ behind _ Aziraphale, and out of sight with a plastic backed, polyester upholstered barrier between them, he is actually beside him, unshielded. 

That annoying part of his body is his dick.

And it is currently trying to escape his trousers. 

Crowley nearly dies of fright when Aziraphale’s hand lightly lands upon his skinny thigh, cautiously. He doesn’t think he shrieked, but who can tell? He peers out the corner of his eye, desperately, but Aziraphale is still looking straight ahead. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale says though, very very softly, clearly intending not to be heard by anyone but Crowley, and possibly not even by him. “Are you going to do anything about that?”

“About what?” He tries to sound puzzled. He actually sounds more hysterical. Aziraphale clearly can’t be talking about the state of Crowley’s errant genitalia, can he? But it’s currently the only thing Crowley can think of, and that does leave him slightly hysterical. 

Aziraphale huffs a light laugh. Then a long sigh. Then a deep breath. Then, “You know, I always knew what you were doing when I got off the bus.”

“Excuse me you what?!” Crowley yelps. 

“People can’t help their kinks, you know. It’s completely natural to have some sort of desire with no rhyme or reason. You can’t change that. And I really don’t mind. I never did.”

“Exactly what the absolute he-hea-  _ fuck _ are you talking about, Aziraphale?” Crowley would like to say this discussion is negatively affecting his erection, but if anything it’s absolutely revelling in being acknowledged. He can actually see the fly-flap of his skinny jeans pulsing with his heartbeat. 

“Your  _ thing _ about public transportation,” Aziraphale carries on calmly. “I suppose it’s something to do with the voyeuristic aspect, or the fear of being caught. But I’ve tried not to think about it too hard. Because, you know, it’s private. I didn’t think you’d want me examining it, interesting though it is.”

Crowley sputters a little. Quite a lot. “You think I have a  _ bus kink  _ ?!” Then… “You’re interested in my kinks?”

“Well, what else could you possibly masturbate about every time we met on the bus? It didn’t even have to be the same bus, or the seat, or location, or time of day. It was just you and me on a bus.”

Crowley stares at him. Waits patiently. He can do patient, he’s been doing patient for several millennia by this point. He sees the moment it clicks, he sees the flush rise in the plump curve of Aziraphale’s cheeks (because, of course, he even blushes prettily).

Finally comes, “Right. Ok. Alright, that’s… er, quite alright.” Then another long pause. “Well, then, um. Back to my original question.”

Crowley frowns and tries to think back, but unfortunately a lot of his blood has been diverted away from his brain, damn the limits of these corporations.

“My dear,” Aziraphale repeats, this time firmer, and with full and heavy eye contact, and a shift of his hand a little higher up Crowley’s thigh. “Are you going to do anything about that?”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The New Switcheroo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25884955) by [Literarion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion/pseuds/Literarion)
  * [[Podfic] Awesome Sauce](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27656216) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)
  * [[Podfic] The Problem with Buses](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27778234) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)




End file.
